


Can I Call You My Own?

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 13:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17509175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: In Jinyoung’s little corner, quietly tucked away, Jinyoung touches Mark with purpose, with calculation, and Mark can’t breathe. Not right.





	Can I Call You My Own?

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic

In Jinyoung’s little corner, quietly tucked away, Jinyoung touches Mark with purpose, with calculation, and Mark can’t breathe. Not right.

He touches him all the time, makes a point of it, almost. Delights in muted reactions, strained smiles, affectionate if begrudging returns.

Jinyoung is _perpetually_ doling out caresses, ingratiating himself with touches. Too-tight hugs, smacking kisses on the cheek, early morning nuzzles, appreciative grips on Mark’s hip, the occasional encouraging pat on his ass.

There is purpose in that, too. Providing fodder for a ship. Livening up fan accounts. Sometimes—mostly—just because Jinyoung likes touching people that look like they need it, and Mark, Jinyoung has teased, always looks like he needs it.

And yeah, maybe Mark gets a little flustered at the occasional lingering brush, maybe he chokes on his breath, and tries to play it off as indignation. But that’s just a byproduct, a side effect. Manageable, safe. Jinyoung brand, not Mark exclusive, they’re easy enough to decipher, dismiss.

But not right now, not when it’s like this.

Private, quiet, everything hazy and soft in the glow of Jinyoung’s overhanging, twinkling Christmas lights.

Side by side, cuddled on Jinyoung’s mattress, heads pillowed by quilts, Jinyoung the big spoon. Wearing wool socks, sweats, loose cotton t-shirts, they are staticky, warm as they watch old martial arts films on Jinyoung’s raised laptop, English dubbed, Korean subtitled.

And in Jinyoung’s little corner, quietly tucked away, midfight scene, Jinyoung touches Mark with purpose, with calculation, shifting the lazy crawl of his fingers to skim at the hem of Mark’s loose fitting shirt. He drags his chin across Mark’s shoulder blade, nosing up his spine as he murmurs. Something about the film, Mark is sure. The cheesy action sequence that is currently taking place. His voice lilts at the end like a question, and Jinyoung’s lips catch on collar of Mark’s shirt as he speaks.

There’s so much skin on cloth on skin. More than Mark is used to, and Jinyoung is asking another question, speaking against his hairline. His voice is warm, wet.

Jinyoung is touching him, (with purpose, with calculation) hand sliding up and over, catching briefly on too-warm fabric. He brushes his thumb along Mark’s chin, his jawline. Jinyoung presses even closer. Already tight, he comes tighter yet, _flush_ , crowding Mark’s senses, oversaturating them with the smell of aftershave, Downy detergent. And Mark can’t breathe. Not right.

“Jinyoung,” he murmurs in question, and Jinyoung hums in response. His caresses are still chaste, meandering, _soft_ , but dizzying in their path, in their novelty, in their unidentified, potentially heavy, potentially perfect intent.

Mark inhales shakily, exhales slowly. He turns to regard him, slowly, balancing his weight on his elbow. Jinyoung’s eyes are soft, his hand still near Mark’s throat. Jinyoung drags his nail across Mark’s sternum, tugs at faded gray cotton as he scrapes along Mark’s mole, breathes out a quiet, “Is this okay?”

 _Is what_ and _since when_ , Mark almost asks, means to ask, but Jinyoung sucks his lower lip into his mouth as he regards him. He’s braced on his elbow, too, eyes on his. The movie is still playing in the background, near Mark’s hip. Another fight sequence if the sudden horns are anything to go by. And the moment feels fragile, tense, but there’s no mistaking Jinyoung’s intent. His purpose. His calculation. However hesitant, now, under Mark’s gaze.

“Touching you?” Jinyoung clarifies nonetheless, voice a breathless whisper.  “Touching you …more?” Jinyoung flushes as he asks, cheeks pinkening. He splays his fingers open, palm warm and solid against Mark’s skin. He doesn’t move, just blinks up at him from beneath his dark eyelashes. His eyes scan Mark’s body tellingly. “Everywhere.”

Mark nods, and Jinyoung circles Mark’s birthmark, skates one hand down Mark’s side to cup his waist, pull him even tighter. Close enough for Mark to feel Jinyoung’s breath against his cheek. Hotter this way, for some reason, Mark’s s extra sensitive to the way it caresses his skin.

“Kissing?” Jinyoung proposes, softly, and Mark nods again. He’s already having trouble breathing, but Jinyoung steals the rest of it away, tilting his head just so to seal their mouths together.

And it’s a first. Tender, sweet, slow, hesitant, the barest, softest pressure. It’s a marked contrast from the lazy circles he’s tracing along the peek of bare skin at Mark’s waist, the way he’s started teasing at the hem of Mark’s shirt, skimming over the waistband of boxers. Jinyoung’s mouth is soft, wet, his lips slightly chapped from the winter cold, but warm enough against his, moving slowly, coaxing him to move back in turn. Jinyoung hums into it as he angles his chin, presses for more firmly. He sucks lightly. Bottom lip, top.

Mark’s lips part in invitation, and Jinyoung sighs into his mouth, abandons his position at Mark’s hip, sliding up to cup his face instead, fingertips cradling Mark’s cheekbone. He thumbs at Mark’s jaw as he coaxes his tongue inside. Slow, soft, even rolls Mark back onto his back. He half straddles him, blankets Mark’s body with his own, and the movie is still playing the background.

Jinyoung’s touches are still purposeful, calculated—the way he closes one hand around Mark’s hip, urging him up, pressing tellingly against him, the way he opens his mouth to lick more boldly inside—but slow, punctuated with the occasional, breathless “Okay?” In English, Jinyoung’s voice is affected, shaky, extra deep.

Mark can’t breathe—not right—but he threads his fingers through Jinyoung’s hair, kisses back harder, dirtier, pulling away only to whisper encouragements vibrating across Jinyoung's soft, slick lips. Jinyoung moans into his mouth, grinds down experimentally, and it starts a sweet ache in between’s Mark’s thighs, cock twitching, straining, hardening with every slow glide of Jinyoung’s tongue, every slow, careful collision of their hips.

It’s so much. Too much.

Mark urges him onto his side anew, slides his own hands under Jinyoung’s shirt, fingertips exploring warm, trembling skin. Along the small of his back, up towards his shoulder blades, and Jinyoung groans into his mouth, arches towards the touch, presses even closer. His mouth slides wetly across Mark’s cheek, and he sucks on Mark’s jaw, his own hand sliding down down down. He groans Mark’s name, another “Okay?” as he cups Mark’s clothed crotch.

Mark stutters out a nod, and he lift his hips for more. Easier access. Easier movement. Jinyoung scrapes his teeth across Mark’s Adam’s apple as he peels his sweats to only midthigh. He pauses just long enough to appraise Mark’s body in the low light. And Mark flushes at the obscene tenting of plaid fabric. The fact that he’s so visibly hard, affected, panting, arching visibly as Jinyoung glides his fingers down to grip. “Been wanting to,” Jinyoung confesses near the seam of Mark’s mouth.

“Me—me, too.”

And then Jinyoung tilts his head up to kiss him again, and he teases at Mark’s covered cock. Mark groans, smarts, grinds upward, and then there isn’t much talking.

And Jinyoung teases, hesitates, sucking on Mark’s bottom lip as he slides nimble fingers under fabric, grips fully, perfectly. And Mark pants, shudders, jerks. Jinyoung kisses his neck, breathing out encouraging _hyung_ ’s. He increases his pace, two strokes in, circles his thumb on the upstroke, flicks his wrist.

 

And in Jinyoung’s little corner, quietly tucked away, Mark bites down on Jinyoung’s shoulder as he moans. Even this affected, even this caught up, he’s aware enough to know to be quiet. To muffle every breathy encouragement, dampening dark cotton further as he undulates into Jinyoung’s fist, limbs trembling as he grinds.

It’s all languid tugs, soft hums of appreciation, Mark biting back moans.

“Good?” Jinyoung asks. _Good_ or _Do you like it_ , and Jinyoung’s dropped formalities, Mark’s mind supplies dimly. He stutters out a yes. Drawn out, his voice breaks. “Cute,” he murmurs. “Your moans are cute. Your cock is cute.”

And Jinyoung’s eyes are on his, his hand on him, his body this close. It’s so hot. There’s a fire skittering in his veins, heat pooling low in his gut. The pleasure is staggering.

JYP Korean lessons haven’t prepared him for this. Mark speaks with his eyes, his hands, fucks upwards with his body for faster. And he rasps out how good it feels directly into Jinyoung’s ear. He breathes out a moan of Jinyoung’s name, chokes on a faster, and Jinyoung squeezes just exactly right, scrapes his nail against the underside of Mark’s cock. “So good,” Mark manages, his own hand scrambling, groping to tangle in the sleeve of Jinyoung’s tshirt, squeezing hard as he starts stutterfucking upwards. His mouth hangs open, and his brows furrow, eyes clenching shut.

“Almost,” he pants, whimpering low and quiet as Jinyoung slows down, twists his wrist to concentrate on the crown, tracing it with the most maddening, exquisitely painful regard. Mark tugs him into another kiss, moans filthily in encouragement. Jinyoung relents, tongue flicking over the roof of his mouth, gliding slowly along his as he strokes purposefully. But then Jinyoung is pulling away from their kiss, forehead to his cheek. To watch the peek of Mark’s cock through his fist. And it’s the way he moans at the sight, that has Mark bowing suddenly, back arching as he moans, comes into Jinyoung’s fist. His limbs loosen, spasm, and his neck tilts back with a too-loud moan.

Jinyoung kisses him through it, lips brushing Mark’s as he comes down. Jinyoung licks his hand clean, uses his unoccupied one to tug him even closer. His grip is tender, whisper soft. He releasing the softest noises into his skin. And he kisses him again. Harder, more thoroughly. He smiles into it, laughs almost, as he says Mark’s name. His voice is soft, awed, terribly fond.

He touches him with purpose, with calculation, urges him closer still, and Mark melts into the nose nuzzling against his cheek.

“Me?” Mark proposes softly in between shuddering, recovering breaths. He braves a thigh upwards, slots it between Jinyoung’s spread legs, and Jinyoung grinds forward into it with a breathy “yes.”

Mark returns the favor clumsy, shaky. One hand scrambles up to tangle in Jinyoung’s hair, anchoring himself as he presses forward, the pressure of thigh firm, unforgiving, but Jinyoung flips them easily, pins him down with his body weight. Mark fits a hand between them, snaps his hand underneath cotton to cup pulsing flesh, and Jinyoung kisses his sternum, rocks down against Mark’s bare stomach, the pressure hot, wet, as he moans into his skin.

He’s muted, too, voice muffled, hot. But what filters through is filthy and beautiful, the raspiest most appreciative noises as Mark skates his hand, sucks hard on his pulse. The drag of Jinyoung’s cock is hot, heavy against his palm.

He scrambles even closer. It’s hot. Soft. Perfect.

Jinyoung’s lips are trembling against his temple and he’s breathing hard through his mouth, dropping butterfly kisses against Mark’s cheekbone as he strains upwards. His sweaty hair tickles at Mark’s nose.

“Jinyoung,” Mark murmurs, and Jinyoung jerks. Asks him to say it again. Just like that.

Mark does. Once, twice, thrice, couples the last moan with a sudden tightening. And there’s no theatricality in it. No deliberation. No purpose. No calculation. Just need. Just release. The sudden, sharp bow of his spine, the long drawn-out rasp of Mark’s name. He collapses into him, writhes through orgasm. His kisses are clumsy, his caresses clusmier still, eyelashes fluttering against Mark’s cheek as he tugs him into another hug, boneless but demanding, beautiful.

And in Jinyoung’s little corner, quietly tucked away, Jinyoung touches Mark with purpose, with calculation, and Mark can’t breathe. Not right.

“Another movie,” he proposes, dragging his nose across the nape of Mark’s neck. “More kisses.”

And Mark nods shakily.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my one and only ever got7 fic  
> don't have any plans to write any more of them on any account


End file.
